Crying Out In Pain
by knamde
Summary: Molly suffers from a rare connective tissue disorder, Ehlers Danlos syndrome, in which causes chronic pain and frequent dislocations. How will this shape her friendship with Sherlock?
1. Chapter 1

School today, school tomorrow. School, school, _school, SCHOOL,_ _ **BORING.**_ Well, it is not technically boring, rather I am too tired to attend, and by tired I mean sore. All day, in pain. Everyone's sore, growing pains, nothing unusual there. My doctor thinks that it is either that, growing pains, or it's all in my head, and due to my disdain for weakness, being in pain counts as weakness, I will try my best to hide it. I will not show weakness.  
"Today is the first day of your child's high school education. This fine school has produced countless students…." _Blah, Blah, Blah_. My new headmistress, Mrs Gardener,seems to be able to speak for an eternity. It is more a speech towards the parents than welcoming students to the school, which I think shouldn't be the case. My parents have clearly brought the crap about this school being the best, is not obvious from the sea of students attending this institution. While I feel as though I am going to pass out from the insufferable speaking (is it necessary for all teachers from different learning departments _and_ Board of Trustees to speak?), I find my mind a place of torture and not a retreat for my endless source of internal entertainment, as it focusing on my stupid leg pain. The daggers slicing my shins, there is an outward exertion of pressure from inside of my knees and ankles, as if there are balloons inside the joint cavity. Sarcastically, my inner dialogue concludes that this day shall be riveting.  
Finally we complete the socially-hazardous journey back to the classrooms, and Mrs Broccoli, or something dreadfully similar, has decided that it would be best to sit in alphabetical order. A stupid idea that this will help her learn our names and as she put it, "control the noise levels." I have yet to be presented with the fact that the order of last names changes our behaviour with others, for I once knew a boisterous group of friends whose last names resided between A - E. I suppose that Mrs Broccoli seems to have thought this through, and with torture in mind, we are seated in desks of two. Sitting next to me is a sullen and equally bored individual by the name of Sherlock.  
Be cool, be cool. Don't stuff up on your first day. Cool and monotone, "Hi, my name is Molly Hooper. I can't believe that we are to spend the rest of our schooling years in this prison." Turns out that the corners of his mouth are not held down by weights, he smirks and raises one eyebrow.  
"Sherlock Holmes," he calmly states with an outstretched arm, "This isn't supposed to be a prison, one of the finest establishments in the country."  
"Some stupid way to entice students to die of boredom at the teacher's hand." This quickly shuts him up. We sit in an almost awkward silence. The moments pass, until I notice that he starts screwing up his face. As if to find the answer inside of his mind, he asks, "What's wrong with your knee? You keep rubbing it."  
"Nothing." Shit, he noticed. Act natural, don't show the anxiety, just shrug the comment off. Maybe he won't pay any more attention to it, goodness knows my parents don't. His slightly concerned face is replaced by the former sullen expression. The tension in my upper body fades out as I exhale.

During more first day activities, I find my thoughts once again drifting until another spike of pain, this time my wrist bones feel as though they are pulling apart. That stupid Frozen princess reminds me, 'Don't let them in, don't let them see/ Be the good girl you always have to be /Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know,' and I start to wonder if the observant, morbid, scrawny kid next to me figured it out. He has already revealed a handful of secret habits of other students, marking himself as public enemy number 1.  
Not long into the ice breakers, we were playing two truths, one lie. Simple game in which one states just that and everyone else has to figure out which one is the lie. Sherlock not only got every single one correct, but also announced that cry-baby Catherine still sucks her thumb, due to the odd shape of her left appendage and buck teeth. Personally I found it lacking the sufficient information to deduce such a thing, but amidst the poor student's blushing she couldn't deny the accusation. My lie was that I love mushroom soup, whilst the truths were that I swim 10 hours a week and have an annoying younger brother named Ben, clearly my parents were only interested in boring names, or as they say, 'good, plain English names.' I am a competitive swimmer, whilst not fast, it is a hobby I enjoy immensely. People think that I can become an Olympic athlete, but I know I am not good enough.

Mrs Broccoli (still don't know her name) loves gym, therefore planning on more torture for the first day, and the best way to commence such an act is for us to fully bond with our classmates, sickening I know, by completing our Physical Education testing. The idea is to mark and evaluate our improvement throughout the year in compulsory subject that does nothing to prepare us for the wider world. This exercise seems more to establish lines between the already forming social divisions and most of the class being ridiculed. My performance commencing with an above class average of 7.6 on the beep test, I am feeling pretty good about myself. Static Jump, both height and how far in front I can jump, was average if not slightly below. I was exceptionally good during the sit and reach, in which you sit on the ground with your legs fully extended in front of you, lean forwards and see how far you can you can reach in front. Everyone marvels as I lay completely flat, but I internally question why they can't do it, for if they wanted to do well, all they had to do was relax their legs. If I relax my muscles, they can just keep on stretching. Although, the other students lack of mobility did not come as a surprise, I earned myself the title of 'Freak' due to my hypermobile shoulders, at swimming. When I stretch my triceps, the one where you put your bent arm by your ear, and use the other arm to pull the elbow towards your body, I can touch my elbow with my opposing shoulder. Mum often wishes that she kept me in rhythmic gymnastics, as the instructors loved that they did not have to train the flexibility in me. Between my shoulders and my swan neck fingers, I often get comments about becoming a contortionist.  
Throughout the day I find myself drifting towards Sherlock, preferring the silence, as I find myself not wanting to participate in class discussions and Sherlock becoming shunned from most conversations due to his poor social skills. The silence is comforting; an unspoken presence that we have each other's back. Turns out that he is exceptionally smart, and has completed his A-levels already. His extroverted parents thought that it would be best if he learnt how to interact with pairs his own age, as he did not appear to carry the same charm as his older brother, Mycroft, and as he explained this, he could not hide his grimace, as if envious of his sibling. I often catch Sherlock staring at me as if I am a puzzle. What is he trying to figure out? Or worse, what does he know about me?

The shrieking bell lets us leave and I am racing towards the primary school to find Ben. The fast walking pace I keep has no bouncing jog as I am trying not to draw attention to myself. Mum says that drawing attention is not a bad thing, but growing up I was taught that I should be humble, not prideful, about myself or my talents, and have yet to find the balance. I climb through the trees and cut across the field of the primary school. Ever-so-popular Ben reddens in embarrassment as I approach, and to turn his complexion redder, I make sure that no one can deny that we are siblings by talking to him.  
"Hey, how was your last first day of primary school?"  
"Do you have to bring it up, I never want to leave. I have friends, the teachers are cool. I don't want this school year to end, besides your school sounds boring Molly."  
"Yeah, it was as eventful as watching Great Aunt Marissa drawl on Christmas morning. You will make new friends next year anyway." The bitterness creeping into my voice, he doesn't realise how lucky he is in the social apartment. I can't help comparing myself to Sherlock, is Mycroft like Ben?  
"I'll race you home, Molly," before I can reply he runs off, my refusal dying in the wind. Home isn't that far away, only 3 miles. Ben will run the whole way, I wish I had the energy to, but I am so tired, A.K.A sore.

Pushing the front door open I smell freshly baked cookies, Dad must have had the day off. Recently he has been feeling more and more tired. I think he is in pain too, but he doesn't say anything, similar to me in that way. He had a surgery on his heart two months ago, I think he had something wrong called an aortic dissection, but I am squeamish so I didn't want to know the details. Dad loves cooking, and when he has the energy he does lots of it. When he was younger he wanted to become a chef, but didn't realise that is was a profession he could go into. He regrets being an economic analyst, apparently it is boring. Dad is a big encourager of dreams and says that I can do anything I want, don't let anything stop me. I wanted to be engineer not too long ago, but was discouraged by the male dominated industry. Dad said that it was a lousy excuse.  
Mum isnt home too often, preferring to work. We don't tend to get along. She often complains that Dad has man flu, and along the same vein, often complains that I am a hypochondriac. When Dad was in hospital, I had a bad pain night. My bodily pain akin to the most hated voodoo doll full of stab wounds. She yelled and said that it was nothing compared to what Dad had, and if I wasn't so spoilt, maybe I would be considerate of how other people are suffering. That was when I really made up my mind that pain was not to be seen, because it is treated like a dirty secret habit, something that the public's eye should never see, lest there be consequences. What the consequences are, I don't know. I just have to stay strong. Strong and silent.

"Hey Pumpkin, how was your day? Did you make any new friends?" It was no secret that none of my friends are going to the same school, but the asking of new friends feels as though he is rubbing salt into the wound.  
"Yeah, there is a boy I sit next to, his name is Sherlock."  
"Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes? His family is extremely weird, apparently him being the most. Extraordinarily smart, but weird." Curiosity struck me, as Dad is not that social being either, generally not caring about gossip.  
"You know him?"  
"Yeah, his parents are friends with Auntie Frances and Uncle Mike, you know, Aunt Marissa's kids. The parents are normal but the kids, they are definitely odd. Watch out, won't you"  
"Hold up, I am normally cautious and don't often risk making friends, and you're telling me that I shouldn't be friends with him? And besides, and Auntie Frances and Uncle Mike like, really old."  
"Yes, and so is the Holmes family. Their eldest is in his mid-late 20's and already holds a government position."  
"Creepy."


	2. Chapter 2

October brings a wave of cold air that is quite chilly as I run towards the art room. If only I hadn't overslept my alarm this morning. A new gust of wind changes my mind about the weather conditions, it is not 'quite chilly,' or even 'just chilly,' it is freezing cold. My morning routine was no different to any other morning (minus the time frames in which the events occurred) and started with the daily alarm, the should or should I not get up, ending with a spring out of bed. Don't call me crazy, but getting out of bed always brings a smile to my lips (but note, it is not an incentive to get out of bed). Firstly, I roll over and a combination of my shoulders, elbows, and wrist will click, groan, and grind. Hilariously loud, with an encore from my knees and ankles. Many times I can feel them shift under my skin, not unlike the feeling of a gurgling stomach combined with a brief cramp-like feeling. The other day I rolled off one arm and onto the other with a mexican wave of clicks going, right elbow, right shoulder, left shoulder, left elbow and finally left wrist. I wish someone could have heard the impressive sound. After springing from bed, if I walk quickly down the corridor, I can perfectly time my dizzy spell just past the entrance of the bathroom. There is something odd when hearing a high pitch noise, watching your vision black out, thoughts slowing down to a halt, combined with the diminished feeling in the tips of my fingers as I brush them along the corridor walls. Sounds slightly poetic as well; let's just start the day as if it feels as though it is slowly ending. I must admit, the rest of the morning is pretty uneventful, with the exception of today, as I have to run to school to actually make it on time.

"Overslept your alarm, Molly?" Sherlock greets as we line up outside of the classroom.  
"Something like that." To which we slip into our usual companionable silence. I notice that my foot feels strange, like my leg has slipped forward over my foot. Isn't that a dislocation? Can't be, dislocations are supposed to hurt like hell. Sherlock catches me frowning.  
"Is everything ok?" Absentmindedly I reply. Dislocations are when the joint goes out of place, it feels as though it is out of place, but it doesn't hurt!  
Finally the teacher arrives to let us into the classroom, taking a step my ankle clicks and then feels normal once again. Must have been a fluke of my imagination, dislocations hurt and can't be reduced that easily.  
"You know what, Molly? I think that we can add art to the list of useless subjects that we are never going to need."  
"Are you serious? Art is an amazing subject. It is full of imagery and beauty, there is no limit to the creativity between paint and canvas. Nothing beats the feeling of smearing fresh, smooth paint across a blank surface. Besides, music is extremely boring. Who cares about the note-things anyway. They should cancel music." I smirk, knowing that this would aggravate Sherlock. Although honestly, at this moment I am still thinking about my ankle and its vague sense of wrongness, for it is doing the dislocating thing again.  
"Cancel music," he all but shouted in astonishment, "You clearly are not thinking right. There is more beauty in a four year old playing the recorder than in any so called art masterpiece."  
"Then I should invite you to my Christmas family functions." My ankle is definitely doing its thing again. Maybe it wasn't a fluke, please don't let the distractions change my vocal patterns. "Um, the toddlers always get some irritating instrument of death, and uhh, last year I believe that it was steel drums. Eventually the hammer accidently fell on all of them." _Stop panicking Molly, everything's fine. The world will keep on spinning and you can still walk. Besides if it doesn't hurt, it is the cause for joy, for we do not need any more pain in our life._ Great, two different conversations at the same time, one between myself and the other with myself and Sherlock.  
"The horror. Parliament should make defacing instruments illegal. Such sacred beings, the apparatus which creates heaven on earth." Sherlock opens his mouth as if to carry on, leaving it hanging as if he is catching flies with it. No, never mind. He is a gold fish attempting to eat the little flakes of food at the top of the fish tank.  
"Cat got your tongue?"  
"No, no. Well, um. Ahh."  
"Yes Sherlock?" _Never mind, my ankle does hurt. Wait, is it actually sore? Maybe I am a hypochondriac and it is only sore because I am thinking that it is sore. Maybe Mum is right.  
_ "Since that I am currently in school, instead of being home schooled with the mission to make and maintain friends, my parents think that I am still incapable of making any. They have resorted to blackmail. They said that unless if I voluntarily bring home a friend then they will invite our whole class as a surprise party. A party for what, I do not even want to know."  
"I don't understand." _Stop pain._ _You are beyond annoying and I am having trouble keeping up with the one conversation that I would rather be having at this time.  
_ "Well Molly, would you do my parents the honour of coming over to my house for lunch sometime." Oh no. I don't know what excuse to use to get out of it, especially since my parents have been begging me to make friends. Apparently, I do not make any friends easily, but I know this to be untrue. Stephany became my friend when I was seven, not to mention the many other friends by the term of acquaintances, and we do get along, for on the occasions that we do get together, we always have a great time.  
"Well Molly?" Oh shit. Wait, actually Aunt Marissa is coming this weekend, might be best to jump ship. What's the worst thing that could happen?  
"Yeah, why not? We could always torture your 'stuck up' brother as revenge as well."  
"Yes, because I did not appreciate having a girls P.E uniform in my bag last week." That was hilarious. The Tuesday before, Mitchel comes running into the girl's changing room. Between the screams of horror and laughter of Mitchel having the guts to walk in, we find that the ridiculousness was because he thought that Sherlock might have stolen one of the girls uniforms before class. While the chivalry was noted by the fellow classmates, both parties were mortified due to being lectured in front of the whole class about the genders entering the wrong changing room. It was a great laugh until Mrs Broccoli decided that 20 laps of the school field during lunch would teach us not to commit 'indecent and unspeakable acts' (her words) again.

It's after dinner and Ben has gone to bed. Dad is cleaning up the last of the dishes and Mum's distracted with sorting the overflowing pile of papers on the countertop. It amazes me how much paper builds up: worthless homework, to do list, circulars, mail etc, it all piles up.  
"Mum, is it ok if I go to Sherlock's house this saturday for lunch?"  
"This weekend? You know that Aunt Marissa is coming over this weekend, and your dad hasn't been feeling to good recently. We would appreciate having your help around the house."  
"But Mum, Aunt Marissa drools. It's so gross." Oh no, Mum doesn't look impressed. The only reason we entertain the dreaded aunt is so that when she finally pops her clogs, we may get a fairly good sized proportion of her (apparently large) inheritance.  
"Honey, the house is a mess, we need your help to get things organised, and you make a wonderful chocolate cake. She loves your chocolate cake." Flattery, Mum must be desperate. Maybe I should have asked Dad. Come on Dad, look away from the dishes you're drying, catch my puppy dog eyes.  
"Well Janette, I don't see why not. It hasn't been easy on her this term, particularly in the friends department," Dad announces while giving me a subtle wink.  
"You know damn well why, Arthur. He's a Holmes."  
"That shouldn't matter. He's Molly's friend, I trust her judgement."  
"We may as well be sending her to the Adam's family for all their weirdness."  
"Mum? Dad? I don't understand. What is wrong with the Holmes'? What rumours are there?"  
"No, I shan't tell you, if you don't know it is for the best. Well, you can go, on the condition that you clean your room first, but take your cell phone and call me the second you want to get out of there. I don't want anything to happen."  
"Please tell me, I'm almost 14. I'm old enough to understand."  
"The rumours about the other Holmes? No, I don't think so, and if you want to go to their house, you will not say another word about it."


	3. Chapter 3

After what felt like hours of trying to decide what to wear to this stupid event, that I stupidly agreed to go to, an exasperated Mother walks in. My exasperated Mother. Clearly, I have overcooked the cake (hey, I thought that if it was cooked at a slightly higher temperature, it wouldn't take as long), which looks a mess, and only half-assed the rest of my chores. Therefore, she now feels that I have done her wrong. To rectify this, she decides that she must make me feel the same, though I can assure her, that later today, it will be just as awkward at Sherlock's as it is with Aunt Marissa.

"Honestly child, it's not like you're going on a date, just wear something nice, appropriate, and you are comfortable in."

"Seriously, it's like those adjectives do not belong in the same sentence together. Anyway, Sherlock always wears slightly formal clothes. I believe that whenever his odd brother comes to school, he always wears a suit." I begin talking more to myself than my Mum, "Not to mention his obsession with the umbrella. Walking dork."

"Do not be so mean, not when you're about to go to their house. Just wear the dress you wore to your cousin's wedding." No, Mum clearly does not get that I can't go too formally. It is only lunch. This dress is a lacy summer-like dress, but actually keeps the occupant warm instead of cool, which combined with tights will be weather-appropriate, but way, way, way , way, waaaaaAAAYYYYYYYYY to formal.

"Too much formal, Mum. Too much."

"Please speak properly, dear. Look, just wear what you would like, but preferably not nude."

And so it soon came to pass, that I hesitantly knocked on the giant, imposing door, the entrance to where the Holmes reside. Mycroft answered, small without his umbrella.

"So, I see that Sherlock does respond well to blackmail. I do not suppose we have formally meet, I'm Mycroft." With this he extended his arm, and in a similar way to meeting people at my father's workplace, we shook hands. "Please do come in. My brother is in his room. Would you prefer to see him first, or would you rather have a house tour?" Feeling more and more uncomfortable by the second, my lacy dress feeling incredibly casual, I mumbled something about seeing Sherlock first. To which I was unceremoniously dropped off at his door.

"Knock, knock. Um, Sherlock," I inched the door open a tinsy bit. Violin music flooded my ears. Knowing it really was Sherlock, and considering how absorbed he can get into his music, I boldly entered, announcing my arrival.

"Oh, hey. So you arrived then."

"Yeah" The pause become awkward really quickly.

"Would you like something to drink, lunch will probably be ready in an hour."

"Um, yes please. Thanks." Trying to think of something, I sheepishly come up with "Can you please show me around, I didn't really want Mycroft to do it." We start to relax into our usual silence, while Sherlock smirks when I mention Mycroft.

"For all the public airs' and graces' he puts on, he has a really good knack of making people feel uncomfortable. He says it's to distance himself, this whole 'Caring is not an advantage' thing."

"I'm confused, how is caring not an advantage?"

"No idea. Some politician told him after…"

"After?" I prompt when he drones off.

"Well, after he cared too much in some political scandal, that lead to where his is now. It has now become his mantra. Scary thing is, sometimes I feel it just justifies my actions, so much that I'm starting to believe it."

"Well don't. I think it's stupid."

"Thanks. I know I can always count on you for sane advice."

The tour is similar to any other ordinary house. There wasn't really any grandeur, just Mycroft's unsettling persona. Except for Sherlock's amazing science lab, that sits right next to his room, full of experiments in various stages. The majority of them are botany based, until we walk to the fridge.

Inside is a heart, apparently a human heart.

"Seriously Sherlock, are you telling me the truth? Why would you have a human heart, besides it's just gross. I think I'm going to be sick."

"You're squeamish? And you call yourself a scientist." Sherlock closed the fridge door and lead me to the sink, that was half overgrown in some sort of vine.

"Where on earth would you get a human heart? Aren't there laws around that sort of thing?"

"Yes, but if you know the right people, you can get anything. Well, nearly. It took a while to convince people that I should get a human body part to experiment on."

"I sometimes can't help agreeing with people that you're more than a little weird." With that we laughed and carried on with the tour.

"Hmmm," Mycroft droned at the beginning of lunch, gazing disapprovingly at my grasp on my cutlery. With a frown I question his opinion on my grip, for I hold them in the correct way. Well, minus the tips of my index buckling into a startling obtuse angle. I don't understand how people manage to keep their fingers straight, or even slightly curved for that matter.

"Doesn't that hurt you?"

Looking down shyly at my plate, I muttered, "Um, no. Not really. If I don't have a good grip, I tend to drop them."

"Hmmmmm." The lunch is extraordinarily awkward. No one talks. The only sound is the soft scraps of cutlery combined with the rustling of food.

"So Molly, I believe that you're in all of Sherlock's classes?" Mrs Holmes asks in desperate need to fill in the silence.

"Every one of them except for advance music, I take an extra science class instead."

"See Sherlock," Mycroft said, "Why didn't you take science. You have all of your odd and wonderful science experiments around the house. I especially liked your goldfish one from a few months ago." I have no idea to what Mycroft is hinting at, but it seems to really aggravate Sherlock.

With a sincere facade, the reply was, "Well, science can be rather dirty at times. Wouldn't want to get my hands dirty, now do I?" It is true that it can be dirty. Last week we went through the compost heap, to see different layers of the decaying food before they removed it from the school. However, I now think that they are having some sort of secret conversation. Both sit with stiff shoulders and an iron-strong glare, across the room.

"Boys please, not now. We have guests."

"Very well, Mother, but he started it."

Before it could progress any further, Sherlock was cut off by Mrs Holmes, " And I can finish it." Lunch then resumed it's awkward silence, but the kind that pressures you to speak, knowing you're definitely going to regret it.

"So, is it true that you blackmailed Sherlock into having friends over?" Mr and Mrs Holmes look surprised, then like a cartoon comic, in unison, shoot their eldest son an accusing glance.

"Well, we wouldn't necessarily call it blackmail."

"Of course Mycroft, because you know all about blackmail, what with…" Sherlock was cut off by Mycroft's roar.

"Just shut up, ok? Seriously, you know you're not supposed to talk about it." After a deep breath, and exhale, "Mother, I think I shall eat in my room. Thank you for lunch."


End file.
